Harry Potter and the Song of the Phoenix
by Daedros27
Summary: In the aftermath of the Dark Lord's resurrection, Harry Potter has a game-changing conversation with Albus Dumbledore. Meanwhile, Lord Voldemort quietly prepares for revolution. Post GoF AU.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Harry Potter belongs to JKR, and I am not her._

_Summary: In the aftermath of the Dark Lord's resurrection, Harry Potter has a game-changing conversation with Albus Dumbledore. Meanwhile, Lord Voldemort quietly prepares for revolution. Post GoF AU._

_This story begins in the middle of the graveyard resurrection scene of GoF, then takes a sudden turn into the realms of AU-ness. It is, essentially, a story that sprang from the concept of Lord Voldemort as a clever and genre-savvy villain who truly enjoys playing the part of the Dark Lord._

_Feel free to toss me a review – I like feedback, positive or negative._

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><p>A tall pillar of black smoke rose from the cauldron, and Harry could an indistinct shape forming in the middle of it. It was twisted and unidentifiable, writhing and growing behind the screen of smoke. Slowly it began to coalesce into a recognizable form, and the obscuring cloud began to clear. As the shape became more and more human in appearance, the pain in Harry's scar increased.<p>

The smoke was still too thick to see through clearly, and if nothing else, Harry could feel deep within his gut that he _did not _want to find out what was on the other side of that heavy cloud.

Peter Pettigrew knelt before the cauldron, tears rolling down his face. "My lord," he was saying softly, repeating it over and over. "My lord."

"Wormtail," said a high, cold voice, and Harry forced himself to look upward from Pettigrew's quivering figure, and into the eyes of darkness. "It seems that I have at least one loyal servant remaining."

Lord Voldemort had regained human form.

He stood naked, floating above the cauldron. Even as Harry watched, Voldemort drifted downward, and the very darkness that made the night seemed to flow to him, wrapping him in robes of something deeper than black. His eyes were red with catlike pupils, and they almost seemed to glow faintly, set against pale, translucent skin.

Pettigrew stood slowly, shakily, and offered two wands to the Dark Lord, who took them, one in each hand. Pettigrew then gestured helplessly toward his stump.

"My lord..." he said, "My lord, please..."

"You shall receive your reward, Wormtail," Voldemort said. Harry shuddered involuntarily at the words, a chill racing down his spine at the ominous promise held therein. Pettigrew seemed to have no such concerns, however, and knelt at his lord's feet, sobbing and clutching his hand to his chest and messily expressing his thanks.

"Stand," Voldemort said, sweeping the wand in his right hand grandly – _Harry's _wand – and Wormtail stood as though lifted by puppet strings. "You have suffered much for Lord Voldemort. Let it not be said that the Dark Lord is not generous; I release you from your suffering – _Avada Kedavra_!"

For the second time that night, the cemetery lit with an unearthly green flash, and Harry's ears were filled with a rushing sound as the Killing Curse streaked from Voldemort to Pettigrew. The traitor's body fell to the ground as the life was stolen from his body, his face frozen in the shock and horror of his last moment.

"The traitor betrayed," Voldemort mused. "It does have a certain symmetry to it, doesn't it?"

Voldemort turned his attention from his servant to Harry, red eyes meeting green. Harry's scar burned, and he could feel a tremendous weight, almost as though the very presence of the Dark Lord was pressing in upon him, making it difficult to breathe.

"Harry Potter," Lord Voldemort said, walking forward, seeming to glide over the uneven ground. He had somehow made the wands disappear, perhaps secreting them in his robes. "I thought it more appropriate that we were alone for this. Some talks are not meant for the ears of lesser men, wouldn't you agree? They are better discussed among equals."

"I'm nothing like you," Harry said, but his voice wasn't nearly as confident as he wanted it to be – and how could it, _darkness itself was looking into him_ –

Voldemort cocked his head to the side like a curious child. "No," he said after a moment. "Perhaps not. Equals may have been the wrong term to use – we are not yet equal, you and I. One day we shall be, of course. But... not yet."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry said. His eyes were squeezed shut to avoid Voldemort's terrible gaze, but even behind closed lids, twin red orbs bored into him. His scar's burning was increasing in intensity, and tears were running down his cheeks despite his best efforts to stop them.

"Oh dear," said the Dark Lord after another pause. "You don't know, do you? How... unexpected." He sounded mildly surprised. "Well, I will not be the one to tell you, Mr. Potter – it would be wholly inappropriate for the villain to outright _tell_ the hero the details of his mysterious destiny, after all – but I would suggest that when you return to Hogwarts, you ask Albus Dumbledore precisely _why_ Lord Voldemort attempted to kill you as an infant."

Harry wondered if he'd heard wrong – had Voldemort just suggested that he would be sending him back to Hogwarts?

Harry heard a low chuckle from Voldemort. "Yes. You will be surviving this encounter," he said. "The time is not right for our conflict, the climax of our story not yet reached. As for Lord Voldemort, well... as far as the rest of the wizarding world will know, he is still dead."

"Dumbledore will believe me," Harry said, forcing his eyes open in defiance. "He'll stop you."

Voldemort smiled, bloodless lips parting to reveal a flash of sharp white teeth. "Perhaps. But the Ministry will not, Mr. Potter. All the Ministry will see is that the portkey took you to a location where Peter Pettigrew was trying to raise the Dark Lord. They will see that he murdered Cedric Diggory, and that you, in your fury, struck him down in return. Your talk of Lord Voldemort they will dismiss as the lies of a teenager faced with the possibility of Azkaban."

Harry couldn't breathe. His scar hurt. His mind spun. He had no retort.

"I must take my leave now, I am afraid," Voldemort said. A wand seemed to simply appear in his hand, and he placed it on the ground, between him and Harry. "Your bonds will disappear shortly. Touching the Cup again will return you to Hogwarts."

As the Dark Lord turned and strode off into the night, his voice echoed back to Harry.

"It is your move, Mr. Potter."

Several seconds later, the bonds holding Harry to the gravestone disappeared, and he fell to the ground, scrabbling for his wand.

"_Accio_ Cup!" he cried as soon as his wand was in his hand, and the Cup flew toward him. Snagging it by a handle, Harry had just enough time to realize that Voldemort might not have, in fact, been telling the truth about where the portkey went – that he might in fact be heading directly for an ambush.

Then he disappeared with a _pop_.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Not mine... but you probably knew that already._

_And here's the second chapter. Short, but awesome (probably). Review if you liked it, hated it, fell asleep while reading it... I'm not picky._

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><p>Albus Dumbledore smiled as he watched Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory argue, each trying to convince the other to take the cup. He was pleased when they clearly reached a consensus, reaching out simultaneously to touch the Cup. Both were good, fair-minded lads, that much was certain.<p>

Dumbledore's eyesight was, unfortunately, not as sharp as it had once been, and so the twinge of the Hogwarts wards alerted him of the boys' exit from the grounds before the blue flash of the Portkey. Dumbledore could feel the hole in the wards, small enough that he hadn't noticed it before, and just large enough for one Portkey. He couldn't tell where it had taken the two students, however.

That was, he decided, not an encouraging sign.

The crowd murmured amongst themselves, seemingly confused; Dumbledore did nothing. It would be counterproductive to work the crowd into a frenzy of fear at this juncture, before he knew where Harry and Cedric had disappeared. The other judges were looking puzzled as well; he estimated he had approximately two minutes before they managed to collaboratively conclude that this was not a part of the tournament and raised the alarm.

Two minutes. Had he been on the scene, it was possible that he could have determined both where the boys had gone, and invented a story to calm the others while getting them back.

He was, however, half a Quidditch pitch away, and could not get any closer without arousing suspicion.

Dumbledore would simply have to do the best he could, then, and improvise from there.

With a lazy flick of his wand, Dumbledore transfigured his half-moon glasses into a pair of Omnioculars, and, much as others were doing through the stadium, peered through them at the place where Harry and Cedric had disappeared. He magnified his view as much as was possible, until he could see every flattened blade of grass where the Cup had sat.

It was very difficult to sense magic for most wizards. The majority of the wizarding population required at least three sources of sensory input before they could even begin to feel the magical traces left by spells and enchantments. Dumbledore had always been especially skilled at the art, however, and he could frequently read magical traces using only one sense.

But even he couldn't sense magic from so far away based upon sight alone, and so he reached into the castle's wards again – the wards that he was tied to so intimately – and he followed the magic with his thoughts and his eyes simultaneously.

It took him approximately seventeen seconds to trace the magic to its caster, and the same amount of time again checking his findings.

_Alastor,_ he thought despondently, _has he reached you as well?_

The magic felt off, however – clumsy, somehow, though it was hidden passingly well. Dumbledore couldn't help but think that if Alastor Moody had done this, he would have covered his tracks more thoroughly, and not simply relied on the superficial masking of them.

There was no time, however, to wonder whether Alastor Moody was in the employ of Lord Voldemort or an impostor; the judges were already beginning a heated discussion about what had just occurred. Dumbledore's prime objective now was to nullify the threat before he escaped and before the crowd became hysterical, and made discovering the truth even more difficult.

"Fawkes!" Dumbledore cried, startling the other judges, who were still in the beginning stages of their discussion of the disappearances. Their brows raised almost uniformly as he disappeared in a ball of fire.

Dumbledore momentarily began to calculate whether that was likely to offer him more time or reduce it, but was forced to abandon his thoughts as he rematerialized in front of Moody.

Whether the man was an impostor or not, his reflexes were phenomenal; he managed to roll away from Dumbledore's first curse, and he raised a glowing golden shield as he returned to a standing position.

Knowing there was no time for finesse – they were in full view of the entire crowd, after all, at the side of the maze – Dumbledore snapped his wand downward in an almost brutal motion – once, twice, three times, each time producing a ragged violet sphere of magic. There was no incantation for these spells; they were manifestations of pure intent, entirely utilitarian constructs.

And Dumbledore's intent was to _smash_ Moody's shield.

The first spell shook Moody; the second bent his wrist.

When the third spell hit, his shield shattered, and his wand flew from his hands.

Moody dove for his wand, and some detached part of Dumbledore's mind noted that he hadn't tried to draw a second wand at all. Not Moody, then?

It didn't matter; Moody or not, a quick, "_Incarcerous_," bound him thoroughly, and a Silencing charm quieted him.

And the crowd roared.

"Albus! What's going on?" cried Cornelius Fudge, who was at the head of the crowd approaching Dumbledore. "Are you insane?"

"Not to my knowledge," Dumbledore said. "But there is very little time, Cornelius – we shall need Veritaserum to use upon young Mr. Crouch."

"Mr. Crouch?" echoed Fudge, peering down at the form on the ground and paling rapidly. "Dear God, is that Barty's boy?"

"Indeed," Dumbledore said. "It seems he has been masquerading as my Defense Professor since September." His voice was chilly, and the air around him fairly crackled with the force of his fury. "He has apparently sent Mr. Potter and Mr. Diggory to an unknown location. Again, Cornelius, we shall require Veritaserum."

The Minister nodded rapidly. "Of course, of course!" He then turned to the Auror beside him who served as the Minister's personal guard. "Shacklebolt, gather a team of your best as quickly as you can and prepare to leave at a moment's notice!"

"Yes, sir!" the Auror said, turning and weaving his way back through the crowd.

Severus Snape broke through the front of the throng, clutching a small crystal vial in his hand, filled with clear liquid. "The Veritaserum, Headmaster."

"Forgive me, Cornelius," murmured Dumbledore, kneeling to tip the liquid into Crouch's mouth. "I felt it necessary to request Veritaserum from Severus before speaking with you."

Fudge had wondered who Dumbledore had sent a Patronus to immediately after trussing up Crouch; it seemed he had his answer. "I'll overlook it," Fudge said. "But hurry, Albus!"

Having succeeded at forcing Crouch to drink the potion, Dumbledore stood again. "Did you create a Portkey from the Triwizard Cup?" he said.

"Ye-e-es," Crouch bit out, clearly fighting the effects of the Veritaserum. His jaw snapped shut after the word was out entirely.

"Where did the Portkey go?"

"Little Hangleton," Crouch gasped. "The graveyard." And he started to laugh uncontrollably.

Dumbledore turned to Fudge. "I can think of only one reason the Portkey would be designed to travel to that particular cemetery."

Fudge seemed to be having trouble breathing. "Sweet Merlin..." he said. "It can't be possible. He couldn't actually come back. Could he, Albus?"

"Let us ask Mr. Crouch," Dumbledore said, a grim look in his eyes. "Are you operating under the orders of Lord Voldemort, Bartemius?"

Crouch's mouth opened, then closed – once, twice, three times – and then he began gagging. Froth bubbled from between his lips and blood dripped from his ears and nose.

"Severus!" snapped Dumbledore, and the Potions Master appeared over the Death Eater in a second, bezoar in hand. Snape pried Crouch's mouth open, and forced the small object into his throat, but was too late – his muscles went limp, and his eyes glazed over.

There was a beat, and Dumbledore said, "I believe you have your answer, Minister."

"That – that doesn't prove anything!" Fudge said, wringing his hands. "He could well have reacted that way to _any_ inquiry about his master, there's certainly no need to jump to conclusions -"

There was suddenly a loud _pop_ and a flash of blue, and Harry Potter tumbled into the middle of the scene clutching the Triwizard Cup – his face pale, tear-streaked, and terrified. Blood was welling from his scar and dripping from a jagged gash in his arm.

"Oh dear," Dumbledore murmured, moving to Harry's side. "Harry? Can you hear me?"

Green eyes locked on blue for a moment, and Harry said, "He's back."


End file.
